The Empty House
by Tinuviel's Song
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's death, he arrives back on the scene, but there's a new threat and a new mystery to solve. Call it Reichenbach, Part 2.


_Chapter 1: John_

It had been three years since John Watson saw his friend's moon-pale face smashed against black asphalt, three years since he'd seen his friend lowered into the ground on an evilly beautiful spring day. Sherlock Holmes was dead, that was a fact. Sherlock always liked facts, so John knew to keep that in mind. He knew Sherlock would want him to not dwell on his passing, too- Sherlock would say something along the lines of "death's inevitable, John, don't muddle your brain with trivial remembrance of a person's state after life. You can't change it."

To keep himself from being bored in what was once Sherlock's fashion, John still did detective work. Today, he was investigating the death of a judge, Ronald Adair. It was an open and shut case.

The investigative team was dispersed in other rooms of the victim's flat, and not exactly being quiet.

"What do you make of it?" DI Lestrade asked. His dark eyes crinkled at the body as it sat looking waxy at a table.

"Well…" John knelt down with a grunt. "The scuff-marks on the table, coupled with wood-chips under his nails indicate a struggle. The skin on the body is waxy, telling me he's been dead maybe a few hours already… Obviously, since you lot are… here. Aherm. He's got bruising on the side of his right wrist, so many he tried to hit his attacker with that arm, but there doesn't seem to be any other modus operandi. Other than that bullet in his chest, of course."

"Of course," said Lestrade, half in appreciation and half in longing for further deduction. "You can go if you want. We'll keep you updated on any details we find."

John gave a skewed smile. "Thanks, Greg."

Deduction was boring without Sherlock. As John walked from the crime scene, he missed walking faster than he was able to catch up with his longer-legged companion.

His heart pounded. He could feel a sweat building up. He wanted so badly to have a bit of action, any kind of action. So he booked out of the flat complex, walked down the stoop, limped down the sidewalk, stumbled down the block until the crown of his head bumped into someone's poorly-dressed shoulder.

"Sorry, mate," he muttered, and looked up into clear green eyes under grotesque, ginger eyebrows, a huge nose over a bristly moustache.

The man he'd run into was tall, lanky, and didn't look surprised at all that he'd been bumped into.

"Hello, John," said the poorly-dressed man in a unmistakably deep, dulcet tone.

"What?" the doctor said incredulously.

The ginger man turned his eyes to the left. John could see clear lines where contacts laid over the sclera, and familiar blue under the transparent green irises. John's vision looked like Vaseline.

'_John's a common name, maybe he thought I was someone else. Plenty of people wear color contacts,' _the doctor reasoned.

"Vatican cameos."

John's heart skipped about five beats. "Oh, God, is that you-"

"Shh! Come with me," Sherlock whispered, and pulled John along to an alleyway beside a sign shop.

Off came the moustache and comedic eyebrows. The contacts, nose, and a scruffy wig stayed on for the moment, but there was Sherlock, thinner than he ever was, and looking a few showers behind. John was hit by a slurry of emotions, and slid down the brick wall behind him.

"You're supposed to be dead!" he hissed in a half-shout. "My God, I could just-"

"Kiss me? Let's save the reunion party for later," Sherlock snipped. "You're being shadowed, and so have I been for these past three years."

"So… So you've been following me around this whole time?"

"I had to keep you safe, and I needed to see if you were keeping up that idiotic love life. Do pick less skinny girls, they remind me of me."

"Shut up, Sherlock. Who's been following us?"

A dog barked in the distance. Sherlock focused his gaze on John's ugly sweater, then back to John's face. "Sebastian Moran," he finally let out. "One of Moriarty's old IRA companions. He's been chasing me around the continent since my death."

"Sebastian Moran… What would he want with you?"

"Unfinished business. You've seen the body that Lestrade was investigating this morning?"

"Yes, I was just there."

"That was Moran's work. Moran is a notorious gambler in Ireland, look into the victim's gambling history. He might be trying to tell us something. The black market might be involved. Moriarty had connections to the Tongs, it's only logical to assume black market involvement."

"What would that have to do with you, though? You don't gamble."

"Not with chips or cash. To get entangled with Moriarty, he considers that the greatest gamble. You and Mrs. Hudson nearly died that day. You know that. The stakes were high, so I had to gamble away my life. He knows I'm alive. Moriarty's game was passed on to him, like Chinese whispers."

"So, why have you come back to me, now?"

Sherlock smiled that smug, all-knowing smile John hadn't seen for so long. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

"Good. Good."

Silence pried between them, emotions welled in both pairs of eyes. For a moment, John considered hugging his friend, crying into his sharp shoulders about how he'd missed him. He considered punching his stupid smug cheekbones and yelling that he hated his guts. He decided to mix the two.

Poom! His fist hit Sherlock's shoulder hard enough to set the taller man back a couple steps. He'd had hit him harder hadn't John been crying like a baby. Infuriatingly, Sherlock wasn't fazed at all by this. He placed his long hands on John's shoulders, in an uncharacteristically comforting gesture. Sherlock's voice was soft. "Come on, don't bother crying. What's there to cry about, really? I'm alive."

John held up another fist in threat of hitting his friend on his glorious face. "You let me, and the whole world, think you were dead! You arsehole!"

"I doubt the whole world's heard of me, do try and think rationally. Don't yell, there's an echo in this alleyway and someone is likely to hear."

John searched his friend's face. He found a haggard expression never before seen, fright that was reserved for nights chasing around chemically-enhanced dogs in minefields. John found concern in that face, and sighed.

"Let's pop back to my flat. I have someone you should meet," John invited. Sherlock for once looked reasonably surprised.


End file.
